


until the sun comes around again

by throughfire



Series: Buck and Eddie [8]
Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23378842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughfire/pseuds/throughfire
Summary: In which Eddie can't cook, and neither of them can keep their hands off of each other.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz
Series: Buck and Eddie [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630543
Comments: 60
Kudos: 494





	until the sun comes around again

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if this one will make any sense outside of my own head so consider this a warning: it might be confusing and it is most definitely entirely pointless.

Sometimes Eddie feels bad for walking into the kitchen alone, for being there unsupervised. He’s lived in the house for years, now, but the kitchen was never fooled. It still only tolerates him at best – puts up with him because it knows that he comes with someone better these days, someone worth waiting for.

The only cloud that can possibly drift across the sky over LA this evening must be working in cahoots with the room, must be just as bitter about his solitude, because it is casting shadows in there to underline their shared disappointment. There’s no thunder – no loud orders for him to _leave_ , it’s all just muted discontentment. His world grumbling quietly at him; sky and kitchen telling him not to come alone next time.

“I know,” he mutters to the countertops. “I miss him too.”

He runs apologetic fingertips over the nearest surface as he goes; gingerly opens the fridge and takes a couple of beer bottles out of there. He’s busy reasoning with a cupboard, opening it quietly as not to upset it further, when the sun peeks out from behind that cloud. Everything brightens, the room is swathed in warmth.

“Why did you get out of bed?” he murmurs, easing a box of cereal down on the countertop and closing the cupboard again, allowing it to bask along with the rest of the room.

“You weren’t in it anymore.”

Eddie smiles at the cupboard; they’re on the same page about this. As smitten. Neither of them can imagine light in a world without Evan Buckley.

“I was coming right back,” he says, turning around. The counter allows him to lean back against it now; the room and the sky coming around to him, to his presence when it’s complemented by Buck’s. “Was just grabbing us something to eat.”

“I didn’t know that,” Buck pouts; bottom lip sticking out and everything. His eyes are sleep-rimmed but bright, his body weighed down by the blanket they were both under a few minutes ago. He’s wearing it like a cape; it’s utterly fitting. “Cereal isn’t food.”

“It’s _breakfast_ ,” Eddie defends uselessly. The countertop digs into his bare skin.

Buck looks at him as though he’s an idiot, but in a nice way. His smile is soft. “It’s not morning, Eddie, the sun is about to _set_.”

“The kitchen doesn’t like me,” Eddie argues, as though that explains everything. “I didn’t want to bother it for longer than I had to, I just wanted to come back to bed. Quickly.”

“I’m all for the idea of you back in bed,” Buck hums, stepping in close. He kisses Eddie swiftly once, though he leans back in for more immediately and effectively drives any concept of time and space out of Eddie’s mind until there’s nothing but Buck and warmth and sunlight, the faint scents of cologne and sweat underlined by his heart beating too hard, too wildly in his chest.

“It doesn’t dislike you,” Buck adds, then. Their noses are still touching. “You just don’t know how to cook.”

Eddie creeps his hands in under Buck’s makeshift cape, drags palms over bare skin and smiles when it makes Buck shiver. Buck untucks his own arms from his chest; wraps them along with the corners of the blanket around the back of Eddie’s neck so that they’re both wrapped up, pressed in close.

“The sun doesn’t like me either,” Eddie informs him, kissing him again. Sinking into the warmth, the happy curve of Buck’s mouth and the firm pressure of Buck’s chest against his own.

Buck tilts his head back and away from Eddie’s mouth, though, raising eyebrows.

“You’ve never seen yourself in sunlight, it makes you look golden. Glistening. _Edible_ ,” he counters. “The sun fucking _worships_ you.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just chases after Buck until he can catch Buck’s mouth anew. It makes Buck laugh, low and melodic and sweet to taste, to swallow. He’s holding Eddie just as tightly, kissing back lazily, with sleep still clinging to his movements, making him pliable under Eddie’s hands.

Eddie moves those hands reverently. He always has done, he can’t imagine that he’ll ever stop – that touching Buck will ever feel anything less than incredible. Buck is always so responsive, so ready to lean into Eddie’s touch and give himself away, lose himself in the collision of their bodies, and Eddie feels honored to be trusted like that. To have all of Buck like this, and to give himself away in return – to never have to doubt if he’s enough.

“Open the beer,” Buck hums against Eddie’s mouth after a while. Minutes. Perhaps hours – a prolonged sunset framing this moment in time, painting it into something everlasting. “We’ll drink ourselves dumb and I’ll cook something for us that _isn’t cereal_.”

Eddie moves his hands further, drags them across hips and interlocks them at the small of Buck’s back, holding on even tighter. “Being dumb-drunk and cooking is probably a bad combination.”

“Good thing my boyfriend is a firefighter then,” Buck grins, “just in case something _does_ go wrong.”

Eddie loves that word. That label. The identity of it, the way it sits upon his skin. He likes the sound of it coming out of Buck’s mouth; the underlying meaning of _I’m yours_ , _we’re us, this is a done deal._

He kisses Buck again, deep and proprietary, enjoying the way Buck sags against his chest and just takes it; kisses back as though nothing but the two of them wrapped up inside of their cocoon exists.

“Food,” Buck reminds him, muffled. “We’re hungry.”

“Yes.”

“For _food_ ,” Buck laughs, though he’s still kissing Eddie back, contradicting every word with his actions. “ _Not_ cereal. Maybe pasta?”

“Pasta’s quick.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Buck agrees. “Fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. Then I’m taking you back to bed.”

“Bed,” Eddie hums happily. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Buck echoes. He’s smiling against Eddie’s mouth, moving his fingers against the back of Eddie’s neck. A moment later he’s dropping the blanket, allowing it to pool around their feet upon the kitchen floor while cooler air washes up against them.

Eddie makes an unhappy noise; he can’t help it. Doesn’t want to help it. He just wants Buck to smile at him like this – as though he’s precious – for the rest of eternity.

Buck kisses him swiftly one more time, soft and gentle, and then he’s stepping away, moving towards the fridge.

The room is tainted in warm hues now; shades of orange and golden stripes of awe landing softly over surfaces and walls and highlighting every inch of Buck’s body. The strong line of his shoulders; the dip of his spine; the lean lines of his thighs. He’s _gorgeous_.

Eddie opens one beer for Buck, then another one for himself. Takes a sip and exhales contentment all over the glass a moment later, settling. He feels spectacular. His mind well-rested after their nap; his body still spent after what they did before that. There are already bruises starting to blossom over his own clavicle, and invisible imprints aching at the touch that are littered all over his sides and hips where Buck held on to him. His own stubble has left red shadows across Buck’s throat in its wake; his mouth its trace over Buck’s chest and stomach and the insides of those lean thighs.

A part of him wants to drag Buck right back to bed and add to the art, see Buck come apart under his hands once more, but another part of him thrives here, under the last, lingering rays of a setting sun where he gets to just _look_ at Buck – take every inch of him in and know that there’s no reason to doubt it. That neither he, the kitchen, nor the sun outside have to be scared that this man will leave them. It’s okay for them to take their time, to enjoy every second.

He hands Buck’s bottle over with a touch to a shoulder, and it earns him a smile in response that makes his breath stutter. Then he picks the blanket up from the floor, wraps it around himself lazily, and tilts his head in consideration. He has to force his mind out of the gutter and ignore the way his fingers instinctively flex with want as he trails his gaze along all that bare skin on display, the low-sitting boxers that do so little to protect it all.

“You cold?” he asks. “Want me to grab you a shirt or something?”

Buck shakes his head, looking over his own shoulder with his fingers curled around the handle of that same cupboard that Eddie had to reason so patiently with earlier. He smiles. “I’m fine. Very warm.”

“Hot,” Eddie’s mouth supplies. “Always hot.”

“Not _always_ ,” Buck argues, moving onwards to arrange vegetables and pasta on the countertop. “You know better than anyone that my blood circulation can be pretty shit sometimes and I don’t always wear – _oh_.”

“Oh,” Eddie agrees. He eases himself up on the nearest bit of free counterspace, blanket and all. Makes a note in the back of his mind to disinfect the entire place later, perhaps in the morning. When he looks up again, Buck’s grinning at him, the compliment still brightly lining his features.

“Stop looking so smug,” Eddie grumbles, lacking heat. “Want me to help?”

“ _No_ ,” Buck says, still grinning. “Absolutely not. Just… drink your beer and look pretty, I’ve got this.”

Eddie bites at the inside of his mouth to keep himself from answering – knows his smile is sticky-sweet with fondness and doesn’t bother hiding it. Buck already has all of him, has seen it all, is the cause of most of it.

He sits back and watches, sips his beer and enjoys the moment. The quiet conversation, the look of concentration on Buck’s face when cooking and the way his expression smooths out into pure happiness anytime he looks up from the stove to glance at Eddie. He’s got a hand curled around Eddie’s knee, sneaked in under the blanket, while the other one shifts from stirring mindlessly to lifting the bottle of beer up to his mouth.

It’s so domestic. Feels so right.

“You’re moving in here soon, right?” Eddie hears himself say, loosened by beer and thrown out by his heart. “Or, do we need to talk about it?”

“No,” Buck says softly, smiling. His eyes are bright and hopeful, ever so transparent with emotion. “Whenever Chris is ready for it there will be no getting rid of me. You two have felt like home for a long time.”

Warmth curls from beneath Buck’s hand all the way up to Eddie’s heart, branches out and sweeps him into bliss. He’s not surprised – hasn’t doubted where their relationship is going since they first got together – but it’s still amazing to hear Buck say it.

“I think Chris was ready long before we were,” he ponders with a smile. “He and the kitchen knew all along.”

Buck laughs, squeezing Eddie’s knee. “It’s a nice kitchen, Eddie, stop giving it shit.”

Eddie takes another swig of beer, swallows, then says, “It already loves you, you don’t have to suck up to it by saying nice things about it.”

“It can’t _hear_ me, it’s a _kitchen_.”

“Well now you offended it,” Eddie grins. “It’s going to rain tomorrow because you said that.”

Buck raises an eyebrow. He’s abandoned both sauce and pasta in order to shift fully from the stove, addressing Eddie with an amused brand of skepticism. “It’s going to rain because I offended a kitchen?”

Eddie nods. It makes _sense_.

Buck sighs fondly at him, then moves to get the pasta off the stove. Eddie watches him move across the space, admires the familiarity of it, the way he fits into this house so seamlessly.

“The sleepover is over by lunchtime tomorrow,” he says as Buck is turning back to him. “We can pick Chris up, grab lunch somewhere, and then stay inside all afternoon and watch movies while the sky rages in response to your insult. It will give us a chance to ask him what he thinks.”

Laughter is still present in the corner of Buck’s mouth, but he manages to keep himself together – doesn’t acknowledge Eddie’s weather predictions but simply asks, “About the kitchen?”

“About you moving in, obviously,” Eddie tells him, rolling his eyes affectionately. “So you get to see how happy the idea of it makes him, too.”

“He’s talked about it before?”

Eddie smiles. “Not with actual words, but the way he sulks over his bowl of cereal on the mornings that you haven’t stayed over speaks volumes.”

Those expressive, blue eyes glint at that. Mischief shining like sunshine bouncing off the ocean, and Buck teases; “Maybe he’s just sick of the cereal.”

Eddie presses cold toes against Buck’s thigh in retaliation, his own heart dancing to the sound of Buck’s laughter.

“That’s just another reason why he’ll love having you here permanently, then, isn’t it? A self-professed master chef living under our roof – someone who’s apparently too fancy for a good old box of cheerios.”

Buck is still laughing at him, lifting his hand from Eddie’s knee to curl it around the back of Eddie’s neck and draw him in close for a kiss, off-kilter and perfect.

“ _Tomorrow_ ,” he murmurs against Eddie’s mouth. “Let’s do it.”

He’s bright. The sun has set outside, rendered useless by this man. Buck’s happiness Is blinding, and Eddie can’t help but grin back. He feels like he’s soaring.

He frees both hands from the blanket, wraps one around Buck’s bicep and presses the other to Buck’s jawline, bringing him in even closer until he’s pressed in snugly between Eddie’s thighs. Eddie is a bit taller than Buck this way – gets a bit of a leverage and can tilt Buck’s head back, kiss even deeper.

Buck makes a pleased noise, lets go of his beer and moves both his hands up Eddie’s thighs, pushing away the blanket in the process. They’re somehow both rough and gentle on Eddie’s skin, the pressure of those fingers tantalizing as Buck trails them slowly up towards Eddie’s hips.

Eddie has to force himself to stop, to ease his head back an inch and keep Buck’s from trailing after him. He presses his thumb to the corner of Buck’s mouth, studies the shade of red there with fascination and has to blink several times to find his words.

“Dinner,” he manages to press out, rough and entirely without conviction. “You said food first and bed later.”

“I’m an idiot,” Buck counters, shaking his head so that Eddie’s hand falls from his face and he can surge forward again, kiss the smile that has broken out on Eddie’s face. “Worst decision _ever_.”

Eddie laughs against him. Says, “If you knew the things I want to do to you when we _do_ get back to bed, you’d realize that we’ll need all the energy we can get right now.”

Buck’s fingers dig in firmer into the flesh of Eddie’s hips, though he leans away from the kiss, tilting his head forward to press his forehead against Eddie’s clavicle. He sighs there, long and suffering, giving in reluctantly.

“Why do you have to be so _sensible_ ,” he mutters, hot against Eddie’s skin. He straightens, though. Backs away from the harbor of Eddie’s body and manages to save the forgotten sauce on the stove.

He makes them each a plate, and looks somewhat collected when he finally hands one over to Eddie.

They eat like that; Eddie still sat on the countertop and Buck standing with his hip pressed to Eddie’s knee, both of them cradling their plates and shoveling bits of pasta into their mouths a little too eagerly, a bit too fast.

They’ve lit the lamps over the countertops, and there’s faint light peeking in from outside, giving the room a gentle feeling, a soft atmosphere in tune with their quiet conversation and the clanking of cutlery against ceramic plates. Eddie appreciates it, what they’ve created tonight. Thinks that the kitchen and the LA skyline may be warming up to him, to the man he has potential to become with Buck by his side.

He still prefers the bedroom, though.

**Author's Note:**

> After two months of story-making bliss I woke up earlier this week and suddenly remembered to hate my own writing again. I feel like I can't be the only one who's sick of my words at this point so I'll take a step back, wait for a better week to come and just not post anything for a while. 
> 
> Thank you to every kind soul who has been supportive of this series so far, I cannot express how much it means to me. <3


End file.
